The Innocent (39 page)

And for all these years Jehanne had kept silent, for fear that the queen—or her successors—might still find Alyce’s daughter and kill her, for only she and Deborah knew the secret.

“Does this mean that King Edward is my cousin?”

“Yes, in the third or so degree. You are both descended from the sons of Edward III: you through John of Gaunt, and the king through Lionel, John of Gaunt’s elder brother.”

“Can my descent…be proved?”

Again, it was Jehanne who spoke. “I believe it can. I have seen a letter from King Henry, your father, to the Duke of Somerset. In it he endows your mother, whom he expressly names, with lands in her own right so that his child, got on her, may exist in keeping with its station. This was before your birth. I believe it is among the crown documents, though the king may not know about it—may not know about you. I have kept some of your mother’s things in trust, as has Deborah. She and I are ready to swear to the truth of your birth.”

Jehanne handed the girl the tiny scissors she’d been holding and, after searching through her coffer, a little silk-wrapped packet. “The scissors were Alyce’s. I have had them since your birth.” Suddenly, the old lady was tearful and Deborah pressed her hand gently. A moment later Jehanne continued. “This is something else, it is yours by right.” And she gently touched the package wrapped in faded red silk tied with ribbon.

With shaking hands, Anne unfolded the fragile material. It was the wrapping around a little, leather-bound case, the sides fastened together with a tiny gold hook, and stamped on the outside was a golden crown with “Henricius Rex” engraved beneath it.

She freed the hook gently from its keeper and found inside a portrait, no bigger than the palm of a small child’s hand. A beautiful solemn face looked back at her, a girl. At the bottom there was a date,

“Anno Domini 1450,” and a name, “Alyce de Bohun.” She was looking at the face of her mother, unseen for over sixteen years. Hot tears rose in her eyes; her mother had died before she’d even reached the age Anne was today.

“The king had it painted by a Fleming who was at court then. She gave it to me on our last journey together. Asked me to keep it safe if anything should happen to her. And I have.”

Again Anne’s vision clouded. She’d always been an outsider at court, and that had been her mother’s fate as well. And both of them had loved a married king, partnered to a vengeful queen. Suddenly, far away, she could hear a rushing, rumbling sound, the noise a great waterwheel makes when it turns; it filled her with creeping dread. Consciously she forced the sound out of her mind. “What am I to do now?” It was a heartfelt plea.

Jehanne cast a quick glance at her companion. “I think we need advice. We must tread so carefully.

That another child of the old king exists means more danger for King Edward and the whole family of York, especially now that the situation between Edward and Warwick and the Duke of Clarence is so unstable. As a Lancastrian of the royal blood, even a bastard, you would be very valuable to Warwick—maybe more valuable even than his own daughter, where the marriage of Duke George is concerned.

The king pays you more favor: others have marked it as well. How long before the queen is told? She is as jealous as Margaret of Anjou ever was, and as dangerous. And what if the king should…take you to be his leman, and it would be asked who you are, where you come from? Hastings will have to ask, believe me, because that is part of his watch on the safety of the king. There are too many questions that cannot be answered without dreadful consequences for you. Let alone what the queen will do if you become his mistress. Things are moving too quickly—we stand on the edge of chaos.”

Anne was appalled as the brutal reality of her situation sank in. She could not, now, ignore the knowledge of who she really was and it was clearly impossible to go on living at court, serving the queen, when her relationship to the king was so volatile.

She needed friends, powerful friends, to advise her. But who? Whom could she trust?

Chapter Twenty-seven

It was some hours before dawn on the morning of Christmas and Edward was with Mathew Cuttifer in his private quarters. The king’s most pressing need was money to take troops north—once the weather changed—with a big enough show of strength to intimidate Warwick and his own vain, foolish brother George, the Duke of Clarence.

For several hours he and Mathew had been negotiating tax concessions that the merchants of London would accept in return for helping him raise an army to stand for four months in the new year. Edward was impressed by the merchant’s wily reasoning. London was the largest manufacturing center of the whole kingdom and the powerful guilds, the mercers in particular, wanted to keep it that way. If the king would consent to further strengthening of certain monopolies within the city—the manufacturing of needles, for instance, in which Edward himself had a large interest—Mathew felt sure he could help his colleagues see where their best interests lay.

A large army under the king’s control could protect London and that was no bad thing in these uncertain times. Mathew also believed that the king was a better general than Warwick; his track record proved he was a formidable tactician with a cooler head in crisis than the earl, though Mathew knew he’d need to work to convince others of his belief.

Like the king, he thought they should try to avoid open conflict—it was bad for trade, coming so soon after the last lot of hostilities—but there was nothing like openly preparing to go to war to convince others of the foolishness of risking life, limb, and, more importantly, property.

It had been a long night and Mathew was exhausted, desperate for sleep. The king was twenty-four, well able to stay up all night after feasting and far too much to drink, but those days were long gone for Mathew. And tomorrow—or rather today—he would have an arduous, cold journey back to London. If the river was still frozen it would have to be on horseback, which, with his piles, was not a thought he relished. He swallowed a huge yawn as the king continued to dissect details of the deal he wanted from the merchants of London when William whispered into his ear.

“Master Cuttifer, forgive me. I’ve kept you out of your bed far too long. We’ll finish our discussion after Mass today and then you’re for home. One last thing…” The king sprang easily to his feet—and unsheathed his sword from where it had been lying on a table. “Kneel.”

For one mad moment, Mathew’s disordered brain sent a panicked message: he’s going to cut my head off! But the smile on Edward’s face calmed his bounding heart. The king had something else in mind as William indicated the older man should kneel. Tremulously, Mathew lowered himself on to one knee—

the right, which was a little better than the left—and bowed his head as the king came toward him, naked sword in his hand. Dazed, the merchant felt two light taps, one on each shoulder.

“Arise, Sir Mathew Cuttifer, Baronet, for so you now are—knighted for loyal services to your grateful king and to the Mercers’ Guild. You’ll receive the Letters Patent when I return with the court to London, but for now, good night.”

So it was in a happy fog that Mathew followed a silent servant to the magnificent bedroom that had been given to him for the night. It was a vast, tapestry-hung room not far from the king’s own chambers, but his tired, exalted mind took in few of the splendors. His one disappointment was the absence of Margaret, his wife. She would be a lady in right of his name now, he thought happily, not just her own. And there would be a title to bequeath to little Edward as well, his much-loved grandson.

The child of tragedy was a flourishing six-month-old with several teeth now, and spoiled by the entire household.

“Sir Mathew. Sir Mathew Cuttifer.” He repeated it several times out loud after he dismissed the man the king had sent to light the way. It sounded serious—a man not to be taken lightly. He was pragmatic enough to know that it was a bribe, but, still, it was a title he felt he merited. Secretly, he was thrilled to be at the center of things and this new honor certainly proved that. Now, however, he needed some sleep. He yawned cavernously as he undressed, hoping against hope that someone had thought to warm the bed, or at least air the linen. There was nothing he disliked more than dank sheets in winter; it made getting up in the morning a severe trial. Then, looking around for a candle snuffer, he noticed that someone had slipped something under the door of his room. It was a small square of parchment sealed with a dab of wax. Curious, he broke the seal and unfolded the note, grunting in surprise when he read the name at the end of the few words: Anne!

The little note, written in a fine, flowing hand, begged to apologize for intruding on his rest but asked if he could meet the writer for a moment after Mass today, Christmas Day. There was something important, and urgent, that she had to tell him.

Thoughtfully, he slid the letter under his bolster and snuffed the candle. It was strange, certainly, and he’d never had a letter from a woman written in Latin before. Had she used it as a kind of code, knowing that, even if it had not reached him, few could have read it?

It had been Anne’s idea to try to speak to Mathew, once she, Deborah, and Jehanne heard he was in the castle. Anne had worried that he might not help them, but there was no one else to turn to and Deborah, and she, had faith that he was a good man.

So Anne had nightmares again that night: the king’s face, his mouth, and his body, woven through images of loss and suffering. She was running, being chased, one moment she wanted to be caught and then she ran faster and faster, knowing that if he reached out, if he touched her, if he caught her, she would die.

She woke with a jerk, heart pounding, mouth dry with fear, a terrible feeling of dread oppressing her still. It was black and all around in the dorter she could hear the snuffles and grunts of her companions, stirring in their sleep. She lay awake, eyes wide, as the madness of the last twenty-four hours came back. She prayed that Mathew had her note. Surely he would know what to do? There was no more sleep for Anne, not this Christmas morning, and for once she welcomed the cold winter dawn.

Not so the queen. Part of being pregnant was that it was hard for her to wake, even though her room began to fill with women from first light. Moments later the king arrived, full of cheer, as they began to dress her. He gave the queen a great smacking kiss over her protests that she wasn’t ready to receive him. And then, among much hilarity, he used the excuse of Christmas to kiss every other woman in the room. Even Elizabeth laughed as, one by one, the king cornered each of the ladies in turn, making it all part of a good-humored game. Anne tried to slip out of the room as the hilarity was at its height and the queen was distracted, but the king saw her and made a hullabaloo.

“Now, now. Here’s a pretty hind, Your Majesty, doing her best to slip away into the forest. Shall we hunt her down?”

“By all means, my lord, hunt away.”

“What say, girls—after her!” And the giggling bunch, young and old, followed his lead, surrounding Anne and dragging her to the king for a Christmas kiss. She was pushed into his open arms and his mouth found hers for one sweet moment before the game swept on and another, more willing victim was found for the king’s sport.

The queen was complaisant; all sorts and kinds of nonsense were part of this season, the twelve days of Christmas. It meant little, and though the king had not sought her bed for a night or so, her spies told her that he’d been working late into the night with William and his other advisors.

Her heart skipped an anxious beat when she reviewed the rumors she’d heard last evening from her mother. The king was raising an army. The time for confronting Warwick was moving closer and she took nothing for granted, having lost her first husband at Towton. She’d been queen for less than three years and she had not given Edward a son. God knew, the wheel could turn again…Her morbid thoughts were interrupted by the king.

“Hurry, sweet girl. There is someone I shall want you to be especially nice to after the Mass. We need his help.”

She knew he meant the merchant, Mathew Cuttifer. She didn’t approve of the king showing such favor to the city merchants; it gave them too much self-importance. But Elizabeth was no fool. They would need money and London was the source. She decided to be gracious. “As always, lord husband and king, I am your most obedient servant.”

He grinned. “Obedient? How delightful. And such a change too.” He clapped his hands. “Come, children, finish dressing the queen. I need her.”

He strode out, leaving a buzzing hive of activity behind him as the girls ran to and fro, tending the queen’s hair, face, and clothes. She stood in the center of the room, still as a statue, as they laced and fluffed her gown and pinned jewels into the ropes of her blond hair arranged in a coronet above a serene brow.

She knew that the bloom of pregnancy had made her skin lustrous, and this time, thanks be to God, there was no sign of fluid building up. Perhaps the last pregnancy had been an aberration; she must ask Doctor Moss to cast her horoscope again and that of her child. Perhaps this child had been conceived at a more fortunate time than the princess. There was a knock at the chamber door and Doctor Moss appeared as if she’d summoned him from the ether. He was dressed in his most expensive purple velvet gown furred with beaver. He bowed deeply.

“It seemed to me that I should see how Your Majesty fares this fine Christmas Day.”

“As you see, Doctor. But there is no time for talk—the king expects me to join him in a very little while. Perhaps we could speak, you and I, a little later, after the Mass. Tighter!”

Jehanne had made one last tug on the lacing of the glorious tissue-of-gold dress that the queen had chosen to wear for the celebration of the Savior’s birth. Uncertain, Jehanne looked at the doctor.

“Perhaps a little looser is desirable, Your Majesty. For the child.” The queen pouted, but, determined not to let anything spoil her sunny mood, grunted grudging approval, and Jehanne allowed the back of the dress to expand just a little.